The Way Forward is Sometimes the Way Back
by quaintlullabies
Summary: Adulthood was never going to come easy for Sarah in the years that passed one tiny grain of sand at a time. If absence made the heart grow fonder, Jareth was an obsessed lunatic at this point, but there was nothing he could do about it. Aboveground Sarah was doing her best to cope with the fact that she entered a magical kingdom at 15 and returned to a world that didn't believe in
1. This Is Why Your Therapy Doesn't Work

"And that's exactly how it happened, I swear," Sarah said on a sigh. "At least, that's what I think happened. It always seems to end up in a blur by the time I wake up."

Green eyes clenched tight, Sarah was tired of trying to explain to people that while _they_ thought her stories were a dream, the fictional imaginings of an adult with an over-active imagination and a weird fear of owls, _she_ knew them to be real. Not that she could ever really tell anyone they were real again, she didn't want a repeat of the last hospital admission.

"And you say it's the same dream every time," came a stern voice, pulling her from her thoughts? "He offers you your dreams and you turn him down every time?"

"That's what happens," Sarah murmured, a slight blush rising to the cream of her cheeks. Well, maybe not _exactly_ that way each time, but those were the main points. "I mean, you're not the first doctor I've seen. They've told me that it means I was accepting growing up, that it was puberty and becoming an adult and all that jazz. The imagery represents letting go of childish things. I get it, but I still have that dream. Almost every night. I'm twenty-five; don't you think they should have stopped by now," she asked, sitting up straighter in her chair, though never really looking up.

"Yes, I'm sure some people would have said that," the voice answered back while his hand moved swiftly across the page. Great: more notes. "But I'd like it if you give _our_ therapy sessions their own weight and not compare them to others. If we're going to get you better, we'll need to start at the beginning and make a fresh go. I think that's probably best in most aspects of one's life, wouldn't you agree?"

Sarah finally allowed herself a glance up at the man sitting across from her taking notes. He was young, she noted, far too young to be practicing any kind of medicine from the looks of it, though the diplomas on the wall in the simple office stated that he graduated from college in the late 90's. He had small, deep set hazel eyes and blond hair so light it was almost white, adding to the appearance that he wasn't much older that she was. Still, this being her third session with the man, he hadn't recommended that she be sent away to the loony bin after hearing her story. At least, not yet he hadn't. In fact, he seemed to be amused by it.

"So, Sarah," he said, finally meeting her eyes for the first time that evening. "When you have the dream, does the man, uhm..." he trailed off, looking down at the scribbles on the paper. "This... Jareth... does he appear the same each time as well?"

"In various states of glitter-ness and varied outfits, but for the most part, yes. It's always regal and magical and ..." she trailed off. How did one accurately describe one Jareth, Goblin King to someone who'd never seen him? She shook her head. "Does that matter?"

"Everything matters, Sarah," the man chastised. "I'm curious about the level of detail that goes into your dreams. It's interesting that you can describe your surroundings, the creatures you meet, the color of the highlights in this King's hair (though blue is a bit odd). You can describe what you wore, how your hair was... all of it, but you can never tell me how you _feel_ about what's happening to you. Don't _you_ find that odd?"

Sarah swallowed and thought about that for a moment. She had some theories about that, though she wasn't necessarily ready to share them with the good doctor at the moment. Maybe the reason she couldn't remember how she felt in her dreams about the whole things was because she didn't know how she felt about it when she was awake. Not that it mattered, really. It's not like she could ever get back to the Underground, or see her friends again. Her father and Karen made sure of that. In fact, if it wasn't for them, she'd still be having nightly conversations with Hoggle about the current state of the Goblin City, but her mirror was removed the moment she slipped and told Karen that she was holding real conversations with supposedly fictional characters. That had been the catalyst for all of this, really. And Sarah, being stubborn and unmoving, never once denied that the things she'd seen were real. That she really _had_ fought her way to the castle beyond the Goblin City and defeated the King of Goblins by turning down her dreams. It was something she'd thought about frequently, playing different scenarios out in her mind – different outcomes, different endings – not that it mattered. As someone once told her: what's said is said.

"Well, according to your own account, Sarah," Doctor Foster started, "you'll be having that dream again really soon, so I want you to do me a favor," he said, reaching to the table beside him. "The first thing I want you to do when you wake up in the morning, is write down what you remember. Write down any thoughts or outcomes you _wish_ had happened. It's very important. Write down as much detail as you can recall – even if it doesn't make any sense. Then maybe we can start breaking down what these dreams really mean," he smiled. He handed over a small, brown, leather-bound book with intricate carvings around the border.

Sarah smiled as she took it, running her fingers across the etchings. "This is beautiful, but I can't accept it. I've got some old notebooks at home that I can use. This is entirely too beautiful for the ramblings of a crazy person," she chuckled sadly, holding it back out to him to take.

"Nonsense," he said, holding his hands up, refusing to take it back. "I insist. Maybe something so beautiful will entice you to keep up with your dream journal, and we can start getting to the heart of the matter." He glanced down at his watch, noting the time. "And that's our hour this week. Don't forget, write down everything that you can remember."

Sarah smiled her thanks as she stood to leave. "I'll see you in a week," she murmured, eyes still focused on the intricacies of the book as she left her therapists' office.

The moment the door was shut and Sarah out of ear and eye sight, the man stood from his chair and closed his eyes, muttering something so low under his breath that it was impossible to hear. The very fabric of the room bent to his will as he stepped through the freshly opened portal, back home, to the Ungerground. He knew Jareth wouldn't notice he was leaving or coming back, he was much too involved with his immediate surroundings. Not that it would matter for much longer, anyway. When he was was finished with this girl, Jareth was going to have a hell of a time keeping his life, let alone, his throne.


	2. Imaginings in Snow

Sarah's house was exactly four blocks away, an easy walk in the still-light of the mid-evening sun, but that didn't stop both her father _and_ her step-mother from calling her on the way back. She appreciated their concern, and, had the shoe been on the other foot, she might have reacted the same way. As it stood, however, Sarah felt their constant check-ups and spying were completely unnecessary, let alone, the guilty she felt for drawing focus from more important matters, like them raising a ten year old who was doubling in height every six months.

"I can't exactly blame them," she murmured to herself as her feet solidly crunched the not-yet-packed snow beneath her feet. She stopped for a moment and closed her eyes, passing a memory behind her lids that she wished she could ignore. She shivered, though it was not from the snow. _Another time_ she silently pleaded with her brain as she forced the images down like bile in the back of the throat and finally opened her eyes. Gone was the dipping sun and purple clouds that seemed so bright against the white blanket of freshly fallen snow, replaced by a navy blanket speckled with silver: she had no idea how long she'd been standing there, but the loud ringing in her pocket and eventual retrieval of the device causing said ringing alerted her to both the time and the amount of missed calls blinking back at her. 7:00. She'd been standing there for almost an hour. She reluctantly answered the phone to a frantic Karen and tried as best she could to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

"Karen, I'm fine. I just lost track of time," Sarah said before she could be buried under the barrage of questions she knew was coming. In all honesty, Sarah didn't really have an explanation for why she'd been gone for so long. At least, not one she could share. "No, I'm – I'm coming back now, I should be there in 10 minutes max," she sighed as she hung up the phone. Time slips – she hadn't had one of those in a while. "Not okay, Goblin King," she muttered as she walked double-time back to the house. She'd have to come up with something convincing if she didn't want her parent to worry – something she was sure was going to happen anyway, but the least she could do was not to cause them _unnecessary_ worry. Honestly, there was nothing that they could do about the inside of her head, and she certainly didn't want a new regime of medications, so she settled on a convincing story about how she got side-tracked playing in the snow. It sounded like her; something her father would shake his head at and cause Karen to chuckle about. 'Classic Sarah' – that's what they'd say.

The truth of the matter was that she was almost certain these little slips were ways the Goblin King (or someone in the Underground) was attempting to contact her. Not that she didn't appreciate the attention... sometimes, but honestly, she didn't have the energy to go toe-to-toe with him again, even if she wanted to. The bare-bones fact of the matter was she honestly didn't know what she'd do if she saw him again, and that scared her beyond belief. It was a thought that got away from her sometimes, got away from her on a path she refused to follow down. Nothing good could come of that. Nothing good ever came of that. She paused to scoop up some snow and cover herself in it to make her story more convincing before she made her way up the front steps of her home.

Deep in the Underground, Jareth let out a deep breath so low that it sounded almost like a hiss. His crystal disappeared with a twist of his fingers and a twirl of his wrist as he visibly relaxed and sunk down into his throne. Another close call, taxing him, though he couldn't let her fall pray to another attack (he has one of those on his conscience, and he wasn't about to allow another), he needed to find another way. It wasn't easy protecting her, especially with that who 'no power' business and no way to forcibly call her back to his side. For now, this would have to do – this make-shift protection that he could offer in bits and pieces until she finally called out for him. If she ever did – and at this rate, who knew what she'd do.

Further still, out of the reaches of Jareth's sight, something let out it's own intentional hiss, wondering how, again, his tracker had managed to lose sight of Sarah Williams. This simple mortal girl was proving to be more of a hassle than he'd previously imagined. Then again, the champion of the Labyrinth was nothing to ignore. Still, for her to shake off his monster, something that thrived in the shadows, who's mission is was to stay invisible until it needed to be seen, was no easy feat, and he silently wondered if she was tapping into that foretold magic that she apparently possessed. It was as if she simply... blinked from existence. No matter. There was always tomorrow.


	3. A Study in Steam

It was easy enough for Sarah to convince her parents that she'd been out playing in the snow, though her guilt for lying to them almost made her sick. Then again, she'd learned 10 years ago that there were some things that she was going to have to keep from them no matter what – things that she could never tell them – for fear of what they would do, but, more importantly, for fear of what could happen to them.

It was a fine line she walked, dipping a toe into the mythology of the Underground while trying to keep her head firmly planted in reality, and one she slipped on every now and then. And, of course, that was before the incident...

Sarah shook her head to push away the memory – her mind always went to such dark places. She shivered off the cold that tried to sink its way into her bones as she climbed the steps to her room after saying her good nights. Dinner was good, if not a bit forced (even though Karen and her father believed her, she could tell that they were worried and that _always_ stressed things, but she never really warmed up after her walk (run) home. _Perhaps a hot shower would fix that,_ she thought to herself as she pulled her damp shirt over her head. Yes, that was exactly what she needed, she confirmed to herself with a quick nod before stripping and putting on her bathrobe. She made quick work of the knobs, turning the water up as hot as she dared before getting in. The steam filled the room quickly and Sarah stepped in with the anticipation of the hot water easing the guilt and cold from her muscles. Things had been happening and she didn't like lying to the people she loved, but she also wouldn't put them in danger.

Her 'time slips', as she began calling them, were happening more frequently; once every couple of weeks now, whereas they had only happened a handful of times in the past. In fact, she could have probably counted on one hand how many times before, now it was happening with such alarming frequency, she could pick out the warning signs and anticipate them. She didn't know who was doing it for sure, but she was fairly certain someone was trying to contact her.

It wasn't like the thought wasn't reciprocated, she thought as she mechanically went through the motions of washing her hair. She'd tried to get in contact with the Underground quite a few times since 'the incident', but it never worked; the mirror was cracked and she hadn't felt the pull of magic that's she'd felt before. And it wasn't like there was someone she could ask about it – there wasn't some post-Underground support group she could attend; no, people all thought she was crazy, which was why she kept everything to herself.

She sighed and leaned her head against the slick wall, closing her eyes and easing into the stream as her breathing slowed. The Underground – it was something she thought about constantly. And not just for the obvious reasons. She missed her friends and the beauty of it all. The way the stars shinned just a bit brighter and the moon was just a bit bigger. The way she could almost smell the bright flowers and taste the rain. She hadn't been back, of course, but she'd seen such things with every visit from her friends, and her soul begged for return. She loved the people that inhabited the Goblin city, and that wasn't even counting... him. She thought about him often, always with good intent (baby stealing aside, the older she got, the more she realized how cruel she was to him, how much of a selfish brat she'd been the last time she was there, and although she wasn't willing to accept her dreams _or_ a slave in return for her brother at 15, that didn't mean she didn't think about the road not traveled).

She could have stayed under the hot stream forever, let the water lap at her skin for, literally, eternity if it meant she never had to move. The water tripped tiny paths over her aching bones in a way that felt almost like a caress, familiar roads and winding passages, it was heavenly after such a long day.

She didn't know how long she'd been standing there, but she noticed when she felt the draft against her back, a shift in the air, a drop in the temperature before she felt the distinct presence of someone behind her. She should have moved, cried out, left, anything, but she found her legs just weren't willing to but up the facade and the rest of her body followed. She didn't even say a word, never even opened her eyes as a hand traced the length of her arm across her shoulder blade and buried itself in her soaking hair at the nape of her neck. She heard whomever it was inhale, and thought she felt a tongue lap at the water dripping from her ear before her head was pulled backward by the sharp twist of a wrist – the sensation was as painful as much as it wasn't.

"Wake up, _Precious,_" the voice hissed in her ear before biting down and –

Sarah was pulled from her dream by the swift change in the temperature, the once almost scolding water was cold against her bare flesh and she hopped to turn the knobs, stopping the flow before she froze to death where she stood.

Wringing out her hair, she sighed and grabbed her towel. "I'll leave _that one_ out of the journal, thank you very much," she murmured to herself before stepping out of the stall. She dried off and wrapped her hair in the towel before slipping her robe back on and making her way back to her room.

She sat on the bed for a good twenty minutes, just staring off into space, trying to push the memory of that brief daydream from her mind. Her neck was actually stiff, though she was blaming _that_on the way she'd fallen asleep with her head against the wall, regardless of how real it felt. She didn't want to analyze it too much, or, more importantly, look too deep into why she never moved. She knew who it was standing behind her, and even at her most conscious, she wasn't sure she would have fought him off. Then again, she'd probably never be given the choice, because she was fairly certain she'd never see any of them again. From Hoggle to Ludo, she literally ached at the thought of never hearing their voices again. Maybe it _was_ time to put childish thing aside, regardless of how real they were.

She ran her fingers though her black hair in frustration, darker and heavier now from the water, trying to put things in perspective. The hard part was the fact that she had to way of contacting them even if she wanted, and she wasn't so sure doing that was going to get her any better.

All her doctors said she had such an over active imagination, and had tried everything to still her wandering mind from Ritalin to lithium, and nothing had worked. The dreams got worse after... She sighed, the dreams always got worse after.

She picked the brown leather book with the strange marking on it and sat it in her lap. It smelled good; something old and new at the same time, soft and sturdy, her index finger traced along the etchings like she knew them; a twist and a turn, spinning around - _everything's dancing_ - before she blinked herself back into the present.

She didn't _want_ to let go of her memories, but didn't see another way to survive. She'd been to the Goblin City, eaten food there and her blood begged to return, but she didn't see a way how. She thought that purging it from her life would help her move on, to unstick her from the rut she was in, the constant longing for verification, for familiarity, for hope, but she always found herself back there again in her head. Sometimes the characters changed, other times not, but the Underground, specifically the Labyrinth and the city surrounding it, was always the backdrop. It was a frustrating predicament, and one she didn't see a way out of – was she doomed to her madness?

She knew she wasn't making it all up – she had proof (see: time slips), both emotionally and mentally, but nothing solid enough to make people believe her without seeing for themselves, and she certainly didn't want to end up where she was the _last time_ she tried to convince people. No, she had to walk this line, give them what they wanted and nothing more. Keep afloat, and she'd find a way back one day.

She placed the book back on her table and slipped into her night clothes with the intent of a good night's sleep. She should have known better. She hadn't closed her eyes for five minutes before the wailing began.


	4. Silent Screams and Bloody Dreams

Cold. It was way too cold. The kind of cold that sets in your marrow and wraps itself around your muscles. The kind of cold that burns your lungs every time you take a breath, the kind of cold that stops your heart and freezes your memories. It was that kind of cold that Sara found herself in, and, for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why. She could hear noise, out in the distance, over the horizon, and since that was all she could hear, she followed it. She wasn't dressed properly; her feet were bare against the frozen, snow-covered ground, her clothing tattered and threadbare, the wind cut though without effort, and she was sure she was going to die there. One foot in front of the other, forcing the air in and out of her lungs, praying for warmth and for her teeth to stop chattering, hoping that on the other side of the hill, she could find some comfort. It was not meant to be.

The first thing she noticed was the color. The stark contrast of red on white, the flames, and the small patches of brown where the fire had cut through the snow. Screaming – the sounds of creatures dying in slow, painful misery as they prayed or cried out to anyone who would listen. Everything was gray and black, except for the red. The blood of countless many splattered across the white like an homage to that whom had liberated it from its body, dripping and painting the landscape in oceans. A flash of metal, another cry. More red, more white. Screaming, dizzying and out of control. Something flying through the sky to meet its target – any target – splashing more, soaking through armor and flesh alike. It was the most horrifying thing Sarah had ever seen, and surely, she'd died and gone to hell – for what, she wasn't sure, but that could only be the only reason she was there. At least, that's what she thought at first.

It wasn't until she saw _him_ that she thought perhaps there had been some mistake - _him_ with his fierce rage and steely gaze. Even among the chaos, she could make him out, elegant and arrogant at the same time. Dancing - _always dancing_ - from harm's way. A spin and a parry, she watched him sink his blade through to the hilt and pull back, peppering his face the with red pattern that now adorned the ground beneath his feet. Simmering in madness, he looked for his next victim with no interest beyond the necessity to kill again. He was beautiful to watch – even in this. A predator in his element, deadly and hypnotizing at the same time, it was a heart wrenching combination. It would be a mistake to get lost in the sight of him; his hands moved much too quickly to track, and before the next man knew what was coming, Jareth's blade had cut him through as easily as the wind cut through Sarah's frame. She shivered, though she wasn't sure it was from the cold. Not entirely sure what she was witnessing, she stepped closer, as close as she dared to get, watching, not knowing if she should make herself known, not knowing why she was there – her dreams were so real, she had no way of telling if he even knew...

Her feet took her closer than she should have gotten, watching Jareth move like a snake or a large cat, or maybe _just him_, not stopping - using momentum from one motion to propel him into the next, she was glued to the sight of him as the next opponent managed to make contact with Jareth's arm. The area of his sleeve darkened with his blood, she actually gasped and whispered his name. She saw him stiffen and turn his head, tilting it to the side like a curious cat as he registered where the sound came from; something wasn't right. His opponent, sensing his distraction, lunged, hoping to take Jareth out, but Jareth moved like water over rocks, simply side-stepping and raising his sword to plunge it into the man's back in one swift motion that looked almost natural on him.

Jareth never looked down at the man, instead, looking directly at Sarah, and for one split second, everything was still. Time slowed to a halt. All noise stopped. Quiet. Deathly quiet. His eyes met hers, and she actually smiled. Jareth, however, made a face that she could only describe as abject horror. He was motioning to her, and she thought, perhaps, he was telling her to come closer. Yes, that was it.

She took a few steps in his direction, but the wind rocketed through her, and she paused against the cold, wrapping what was passing as clothing around herself tighter.

He was saying something. Yelling, perhaps, but she couldn't hear him. He was running towards her now, running faster than she'd ever seen anything move in her life. And then he was gone. His beautiful face, gone, in an instant, like he was never there, and for one second, she thought she was being punished. She heard the blade behind her before she registered what it was. She could hear the someone breathing behind her and turned, thinking it was Jareth. It wasn't.

She didn't know where he'd come from, only that he was there, and he was _big_. Bigger than anything human or... whatever it was that Jareth was. And he smelled bad. And she wanted to put some distance between her, him and that steel in his hand. She took a step back only to feel a big hand wrap around her arm and pull her closer.

"Your majesty," he growled, before running her through with his blade, piercing skin and bone, muscle and sinew. Sarah, for what it was worth, never even made a noise. She was surprised at how little pain she was feeling, and got lost in the sight of her own blood pouring in quick streams; she was dizzy. Jareth was there now, blinked back into vision beside her, she could hear him now – even if she wished she hadn't. It was a sound, so terrifyingly inhuman that she would have recoiled from him if she could have. She dropped to her knees, unable to support her own weight anymore; she felt heavy. She was no longer cold, though she was sure it was because her blood was so warm.

Another scream, and the sound of metal through flesh (a sound she was now intimately familiar with) to her left - she could make out so much through sound, but she couldn't raise her head to look. Her knees were wet on the ground, but whether it was from the snow or the red, she wasn't sure.

Finally, she heard his voice, speaking to her – only her.

"Precious, no," he almost sobbed, dropping to his knees beside her. He was so beautiful, she couldn't speak, he shouldn't be sad - never that. Not his face. His hair, almost the color of the frozen ground, pale skin freckled with the blood of his enemies, he was the most stunning creature in all of existence; it should have been a crime for his face to be so contorted.

"I'm not cold anymore," she murmured absently, trying to lift a hand to touch his face.

"Why are you here," he asked in urgency, as if he didn't have much time. She thought that was silly; he could reorder time – they had all the time in the world. She moved again to speak, coughing, and gagging – there was something in her throat.

Oh. Right.

She shook her head – she didn't know how or why she was there, just that she was, and his beautiful face would be the last thing she saw.

She had something to say. Something so important, but she couldn't remember _what_.

"Jareth -" she choked.

Sarah sat straight up in her bed, gasping for breath as if all the oxygen had been stolen from her room. She gulped in air like she'd never tasted it before and looked around, making sure she was still in her bed, in her room, in her house in _her_ plane of existence. Covered in sweat and terribly parched, she threw the sheets back and stood on wobbly legs to make her way downstairs to get some water. Her heart was beating out of her chest as if she'd ran a marathon and wondered where _that_ had come from. Her dreams, while vivid, were never _that_ clear and certainly never that violent. She'd have to talk to the good doctor about this one. She tried to remember everything she could to write down when she got back to her room – he was going to have a field day with this one.

Across worlds and time and dimensions and voids, Jareth, Goblin King, sat straight up in his bed and immediately looked down at his hands. They weren't the blood stained, sticky mess they'd been not moments before, coated in the oncoming death of one Sarah Williams, champion of the Labyrinth, which was good, because he wasn't entirely sure what he'd just seen was a dream. None of them were ever that detailed or bright or... alive. It wasn't a dream, it was a _warning_.

"I've got to get her back here," he murmured, before lying back down to drift into, hopefully, a more restful sleep.


	5. A Small Showdown

Sarah didn't get much sleep for the rest of the night. No matter how much she tried, bits and pieces of her nightmare kept creeping into her vision, and the same could be said for the next day in her waking hours as well. She'd dutifully written down everything she remembered with as much detail as possible in her book and hoped, perhaps, someone with a more professional background could provide some insight about the newest developments regarding the dark recesses of her subconscious.

She was taking a gamble, telling what she'd seen – there was always the possibility that she would be seen as a complete nutter by the good Doctor Foster and have her committed, but she didn't think that was the case. In fact, talking about her experiences with him came much easier than with anyone in the past – he didn't seem to judge her, and for that, she was eternally grateful. In the past, speaking with anyone about her dreams resulted in more than a few strange looks and a furious scribble on a prescription pad. As of yet, Doctor Foster had failed to prescribe her anything, and that, in Sarah's limited experience, was a good thing.

Days spilled into evenings, and while she'd never said anything to her parents about it, the same new nightmare continued to make uninvited appearances in her head to the point that she was almost relieved when it was time for her next appointment. At least she could get it off her chest – talk about it and maybe move on. Then again, she'd been having similar dreams (though, generally more pleasant and sometime more inappropriate) about the Underground for years. Too many years, in fact.

She'd almost made it through the week unscathed, until Toby almost gave her up. Breakfast one morning became tense when he mentioned hearing her moving around her room at all odd times of the early morning.

"You look tired," he said nonchalantly, looking over a bowl of Lucky Charms. "I heard you come downstairs last night." He wasn't trying to start trouble. He was a 10 year old kid worried about his big sister – he wanted her to be ok, too.

Sarah, for all intents and purposes, kept a calm demeanor, even if her insides were drowning in anxiety. She knew what was going to happen next, long before the actual words came out of Karen's mouth.

"Sarah," she began carefully, as if she were looking for the right words to say to diffuse the situation before it happened. "Are you not sleeping well? I thought the new doctor was supposed to be helping with that."

Sarah gave a weak smile, fighting back the bile that threatened to make its way into her mouth. She knew what Karen was alluding to, and Sarah would rather not think about it, thank you very much.

"I don't want to pry," she started again, "but if there's something that we can do to help beyond the appointments, you need to let us know. We don't want another..." she trailed off. No point in bringing that up if it wasn't necessary.

Sarah sighed, this would forever be her life. Treading lightly between two worlds, head mixed between reality and fantasy and trying to keep her feet firmly placed on the side of sanity. No matter what she did, no matter how much therapy or medication, it would always come back to this – this thing that happened that she couldn't take back.

"Yeah, besides," Toby said, getting up from the table and putting his dish in the sink, "that guy is never coming back. And if he does, I'll beat him up," he grinned through the gaps where his teeth should be.

"I know you would, Tobe," Sarah grinned back as she got up from the table, appetite eradicated now. She ruffled his hair as she moved past him; barely past her waist and ready to do battle. She fought back a shiver. "Besides, it was nothing, really," she lied smoothly. "There was a big bug in my room and I could hear it buzzing around – it woke me up, that's all."

She smiled to Karen, as if saying _I'm ok_ and grabbed her bag – the last week of classes before Christmas break and she couldn't wait to have some free time to be alone.

"A bug, huh?"

She turned to see her father kissing Karen on the cheek before grabbing his briefcase to leave. "I told you to close your window at night – the bugs want in from the snow. Besides, it's too cold anyway – you're going to get sick."

"Yeah, Dad, I'll close it from now on. Don't want to get sick," she said softly before leaving. It wasn't the cold she was afraid of.

Classes were the equivalent of glorified movie time – it seemed her professors were ready for Christmas break, too, and the days were going by fast. Or maybe that was because the daylight disappeared so quickly this time of year. Or maybe it was because she was existing somewhere between sleep and awake and that wasn't healthy. Or maybe it was because she couldn't focus on much other than her dreams.

The trip to Doctor Foster's office was a 15 minute drive away, and all the while, she debated on whether or not to tell him about the vivid horror movie that played behind her eyelids every night – she hadn't been seeing him long, and maybe she should work up to it. The closer it got to time for her to actually talk about it out loud, the worse of an idea it seemed. Then again, she was never going to get 'better' if she didn't right? Right.

At least, that's what the rational part of her said. The irrational part wondered what was happening in the Underground, and what her dreams _really_ meant – she couldn't bare it if her friends, or even _he_ was in danger. She silently wondered what the difference between her once, mostly pleasant dreams, and this new one meant. Why was it so clear? Why was _he_ fighting. What did that... thing call her 'your majesty'? The dream was so vivid one night, she had to examine her stomach for puncture wounds. She laughed as she killed the engine and stepped into the cold. The last thing Karen could handle was some sort of strange stigmata on top of everything else. It would be Karen committed next.

She knocked lightly on the office door, trying to make herself known before entering, but could hear Doctor Foster on the phone on the other side. Whatever he was talking about, she could hear the levels of his voice raising and dropping, as if he wanted to scream, but realized he was in an office where someone might hear him. Whatever it was, it was serious. She couldn't make out what he was saying – something about plans or something – so decided to wait in the lobby until she was called; she was a few minutes early anyway.

Ten minutes later, a very frazzled-looking Doctor Foster emerged from his office and softly called Sarah back. He looked disheveled, like a man that had spent the better part of the afternoon running his hands through his hair in frustration. The way it stood up at odd angles made her think of someone else. She quickly shook her head and pushed _that_ thought deep back into the recesses of her mind; nothing good could come from dwelling on him.

She took her normal spot on the couch across from him and watched as he closed the door behind him – there was something off, like he'd just gotten bad news and didn't really want to be talking to a crazed loon at the moment; she couldn't really blame him.

"Is everything ok," she finally asked him as he sat in his chair across from him.

"Everything is fine, Sarah, why would you think otherwise," he said absently as he opened his notepad.

"I knocked when I first came in, you sounded like you were in the middle of a pretty serious conversation. I wasn't eavesdropping or anything, I just heard when I came in," she said conversationally, unwrapping her scarf. If Sarah noticed the immediate tensing in his back, she didn't mention it – he did his best to brush it off.

"Ah yes," he said after a beat. "I'm going home for the holidays – plans with the whole family are always stressful, even for a shrink," he smiled. Technically, he wasn't lying.

His smile was so disarming, Sarah found herself smiling as well – she supposed that meant he was good at his job – she imagined he'd need to diffuse situations from escalating rather quickly, and a smile like that certainly did the trick. She reached into her bag and pulled out her dream journal, trying not to show the nerves that threatened to make her put it right back where she had it stored moments before.

He needed to know.

Maybe he could help.

He just wanted to help.

Everyone just wanted to help.

She sighed and put on her best 'at ease' face and looked up; he was already writing something down. She didn't particularly care for that. He began before she had a chance to mention it.

"I see you've brought your book – did you have the dream again," he asked without looking up.

"A dream, yes, not the same one," she said cautiously. She was feeling rather silly now that it came time to actually say the words written down to another person.

"And you wrote down everything you could remember when you woke up," he asked in that same too-calm tone.

"Yes, each time," she answered quickly, looking anywhere except at him.

His eyebrow shot up and he finally glanced up from his notes.

"Each time? You've had the same dream multiple times," he asked, suddenly very interested in what she was saying.

"Yes, the same for the most part. Little tiny details changed, but nothing major. I haven't slept very well this week," she admitted.

"I would imagine not – have you told your parents," he asked, concerned. Sarah twisted in her seat, looking at the floor.

"I don't... always think that's the best idea. I don't like to worry them. They always assume the worst and I don't want that. They always go back to... well, you know, but it's not that. These dreams aren't even related," she rambled.

"I think maybe I should be the judge of that," he said quickly with authority and, if Sarah were being honest, a little hostility. Enough that her eyes snapped up to look at him. If he had been harboring any ill-will with her last statement, he'd either recovered quickly or didn't show it; it was the same impassive look he always had.

She opened her mouth to say something, but decided against it – she'd been doing better, not snapping at people, not showing her temper – no point in breaking her streak now. She didn't want to go down that road again, not after it had taken so long to earn her parents trust again – she could keep calm, she could get through this like she got through everything else. Keep calm and carry on.

"Let's talk about the other dreams, before we get into the new ones," he said, glancing back down at his note. He had her file and it was _big_ she didn't even want to know what was in there.

"I told you about them," she said, confused.

"No, not those ones. The ones that happened _before_ your incident," Doctor Foster said calmly. He knew he was broaching a sensitive subject, and had extensive notes on what happened to trigger the dreams, and her personality immediately after. It was like waking a sleeping tiger, and he needed to go slowly.

For her part, Sarah didn't say a word for a full minute. Maybe two. Her voice, though quite defiant, was full of quiet rage, and, if she were being honest, just a little bit of fear. "You have your notes, I know you've read them. You have every note from every doctor I've ever seen from the looks of size of that file. I really don't see what good can come of me reliving any of it."

Doctor Foster closed the file and folded his hands on top of the stack of papers; this was the famous temper he'd heard so much about. "And I'm asking you to tell me about them yourself. Now. Here. I want to hear it from your own mouth. I want to hear about that night and the nights before it until I've decided that I don't want to hear about it anymore. And you'll do as you're asked, because, if not, I'll have you committed quicker than you can raise your voice. You were ordered here by the courts, and don't think for a second I'd hesitate to send you back." His voice, though hardly above a whisper, held an authority that he'd never shown before. It wasn't just that he could send her back, either – it was something else.

"I think we've talked enough for today," Sarah said as she stood, putting her coat back on – things were about to be elevated to a level that she didn't want to take it to, and getting out of that office was probably her best bet. "I'll see you next week," she said quietly.

Doctor Foster stood, though he didn't say anything for a while. He silently observed, though when Sarah looked up, she could see the anger in his eyes. She turned to leave, and he finally spoke, voice just a sliver of a whisper, full of menace and foreboding, enough that she turned fully to face him to make sure the voice was coming from the same man.

"You will sit back down in that chair or I will forcefully put you back there and hold you down until you are picked up to go back to the state hospital. I've read about your behavior in the past, and I've seen what you've gotten away with before – that is not the way you will behave here. You have two choices. Sit down, or I will sit you down myself. Am I making myself clear?" He never raised his voice, never moved a muscle, but simply looked at her, muscles tense, as if he was ready to launch himself at her if he needed to.

Sarah slowly sank back down in her chair, unwilling to test him to see if he was serious. Something about him set her fillings on end, and she wasn't sure why. It wasn't just the words he said, it wasn't how he said them, it was the threat, as if he almost _wanted_ her to do it. As if he were daring her to make him show his authority; she wasn't willing to find out if he was serious.

After a moment he sat back down in his chair facing her, re-opened his notes and began to write something down. Again, he never looked up as he spoke, simply spoke to her in the same, calm, unaffected voice, as if nothing happened.

"Now, Sarah," he began again. "Why don't you tell me, in your own words, about the event and days following that lead to your suicide attempt."


	6. Story Time

Needless to say, Dr. Foster was the absolute last person she wanted to be talking to about this, at least now after his threats he was, anyway, but she didn't really have a choice. The last thing she wanted was to be placed back into some facility where she'd be drugged and studied like before. In fact, her recent nightmare would be more welcome than that – and that was saying something.

Sarah narrowed her green eyes at him viciously and fought back a growl; if she thought she could get away with it, she would have throttled him, but she figured doing that would put her in the same position, or, worse, jail. She looked down at the floor, trying to recall the details that she'd happily pushed into the back of her mind for years now, and wondered which version of the story she should tell: the truthful one, the one that made her like every bit the crazy person people thought she was, or the more rational one – the one that the doctors had "pieced together" from other statements, the police report and "evidence" recovered from her room. She decided on the latter, if for no other reason than she wouldn't give Dr. Foster the satisfaction of seeing her shaken.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly before beginning.

"Three years ago, we were the victims of a home invasion. Somehow, a man broke into our house with the intention of robbing us, or so the police said," she stated very matter-of-factly. "It was storming badly, so none of us heard him come in – I was told he came in through my bedroom window – I like to sleep with it open – and when I woke up, he was standing over me." Sarah paused for a moment, absently rubbing her wrists; to be more accurate, he had her pinned to her mattress by her wrists and a hand over her mouth – she couldn't move, she couldn't scream, she couldn't do anything. It was the worse five minutes of her life, paralyzed with fear and nothing she could do about it, she shook her head.

"I managed to get away from him and call for help but he fought me before my father got to the room," she said quietly, remembering the feeling of the mirror breaking against her back as she was thrown into it. "He struggled with my father for a few minutes but overpowered him – the guy was long gone by the time the police arrived. They still haven't caught him."

She finally looked up, at Dr. Foster – he wasn't taking notes anymore, quite enthralled with her story, but she was finished talking for the moment. She needed a moment. Or ten. After a beat, Dr. Foster wrote more information down in his book – she assumed he was making notations about her outward reaction to recalling her story – he wasn't getting much from her.

When he finally spoke, it was almost sympathetic, but not quite. Almost like he knew he _should_ have that reaction, but didn't quite know how to convey it. As if he had read somewhere what sympathy was and was giving it a try without having actually felt it. It was an odd thing to think.

"And what happened in the days following," he asked, curious.

"The nightmares started."

Sarah closed her eyes – there was one thing she could say about all the medication that they pumped into her as a hopeful finality to her problems: it gave her dreamless sleep. Blissful, dreamless sleep. In fact, she was damn-near in a coma during the night hours, and, for whatever reason, once she was taken off of them (stopped taking them), they didn't come back. At least, not in the same way.

"And what were the nightmares about, Sarah?"

"They were about him – the man that was in our house," she said easily; it wasn't a lie.

"What did he look like?"

"I don't know, he was wearing a mask. I never saw his face, but I remember how he smelled."

"And what did he smell like?"

"Like death."

Sarah looked up and met Dr. Foster's eyes, and for once, she didn't look away. She meant what she'd said – she'd never seen a dead body, never smelled one before, but she was willing to bet anything in her possession that the man who had assaulted her that night smelled like death. And she dared the good doctor to challenge her on it.

It seemed he wouldn't be doing that.

"I see," he said, scribbling something down on paper; she wanted to rip the notepad from his hands and shred it. Maybe set it on fire. Maybe set _him_ on fire. "And what happened after that."

"The nightmares wouldn't stop. I didn't sleep – couldn't sleep. I would go for days without sleeping, walking around half awake. I hallucinated, saw things that weren't there, heard things that no one else heard. I now understand the adverse effects of not sleeping quite well," she said with a snort. "I was in a daze, everything was hazy. I don't remember much about what happened after," she lied.

"Why don't you tell me what you _do_ remember then," Dr Foster pressed. Sarah sighed – she didn't really want to talk about this anymore.

"I had been prescribed pills for anxiety to help me sleep, I just wanted to sleep," she said sadly. "I wanted to sleep without the nightmares, I wanted to just close my eyes and see nothing, so I took a few more than the suggested dose."

"You took all of them."

"I took most of them," she corrected. "I stopped when I started to feel sleepy. I passed out and woke up in the hospital. People were freaking out and I didn't know why – I kept telling them that all I wanted to do was sleep. Apparently that's considered a suicide attempt. That's all I remember."

Dr. Foster didn't say anything for a long time, taking in her telling of the events that night and comparing them to notes he had in front of him – it was an almost verbatim account to what he was reading. He took a moment to decide how he wanted to approach this problem, as what Sarah has just told him was basically a rehearsed script that she'd recited; he wanted to know what she really saw that night, not what she'd been _told_ she'd seen.

"Sarah, I appreciate what you've just told me," he began, forming his words very carefully. "But I want to know what _really_ happened that night. Not what you've been told happened, but what you actually remember."

Sarah looked at him as if _he_ were the crazy one. "Obviously, as was well established before I ever walked into this office, I was suffering from PTSD and hallucinations from a lack of sleep. I know that now; I don't remember what I said when I finally started talking again. I was heavily medicated."

She hoped he believed her, but she could tell by the look on his face, that he didn't.

She sighed and began again, being very cautious about what she did, in fact, tell him. She'd been saying, since she was 'cured' that she didn't remember everything and that she certainly didn't_believe_ it happened that way. The events of that night happened exactly the way it was in the police report. Exactly the way she'd just told him.

Lies.

She'd told so many lies.

Lies to protect herself. Lies to protect her friends. Lies to protect _him_.

Of course she knew what happened that night, it was something she would never forget. Something that would stay with her until the day she died. Something that she could recall in such vivid detail, that she could map out the exact locations of every thing, living or alive in her room that night with startling accuracy. She wouldn't, of course, tell him that.

"I was asleep, and it was storming. Mind you, this is when I was still having dreams about my fantasy world -"

"The Underground, you called it, according to these notes," he filled in for her.

"Yes," she snapped, more annoyed at the way the word, something intimate and personal to her, sounded all wrong from his mouth than she was about the condescending tone he'd taken. "I was still having pleasant dreams about the Underground, so the fact that I thought someone had come through the mirror in my bedroom seemed like part of the dream. I didn't think anything of it. In my dreams, my _imaginary_ friends," she said sternly, making sure to insinuate that she _knew_ they weren't real, "always came through my mirror."

She took a breath. That bloody mirror – three years and she'd still never gone to look at it again. It was in the attic somewhere, but she just couldn't bring herself to...

"I thought that he was just part of the dream, I didn't think anything of it when he appeared." Sarah sighed again, obviously frustrated and uncomfortable; she twisted in her seat as her thoughts became clearer. She didn't realize what happened until later – she didn't even know that anything else had the _ability_ to come through that thing, and for seven whole years after her time in the Labyrinth, only Hoggle, Ludo and her brave Sir Knight had made the trip regularly. _He_ never did, but that was a thought for another day.

"When I woke up, he was standing over me, like I said," she swallowed, "but I couldn't see his face. He was wearing a mask."

"A knit mask?"

"I don't remember; it was dark," she answered quickly. Perhaps a little too quickly.

She remembered it quite clearly; intricately carved, like the face of a demon, with horns or antlers or... it reminded her of another mash she'd seen once before. In fact, the only reason she _didn't_immediately fight the man off was because she thought it was...

"He pinned me down by my wrists – I couldn't move and his other hand was over my mouth so that I couldn't scream. He was reciting something."

"What was he saying?"

"I don't know; it wasn't in English."

"Do you know what language it was?"

"No, I'd never heard anything like it before." She didn't know for sure, but she had a feeling it was Celtic or something similar, maybe Gaelic; she couldn't be sure. She couldn't remember what was being said, so she had no way of finding out if it was something native to the Underground or not.

"It felt like my literal soul was being removed from my body," she whispered, shivering. "Like he was removing a piece of me with every word he said."

"Like a spell?"

"Or a curse. He recited it like an incantation – like when you see Monks on television praying," she said – it was the only analogy that seemed appropriate.

"And then what happened?"

"I cried. I fought, I kicked, I twisted as best I could. I fought until I got free." In reality, Sarah had bit him, she could still taste the coppery tang of his blood in her mouth if she thought about it long enough. It was enough of a shock to him to give her a window to get free.

"What did you do then," Dr. Foster asked, seemingly having forgotten his notes and everything else – he was listening like a child being told a bedtime story.

"We fought, he ended up slamming me into a wall and then throwing me into my dresser; my back cracked the mirror, I was cut pretty badly." That part was true, actually – she'd put up a hell of a fight. "He never stopped reciting whatever it was he was saying."

What she failed to tell her doctor, however, was the small, minute detail that she'd left out every single time she'd told this story: she'd called out for him then. She screamed for the Goblin King by name as loudly as she could, having managed to avoid doing it for seven years previous. She wasn't completely sure why he wasn't able to get through, but she knew she'd seen him, if only for a brief second, pale skin gleaming in the flashes of lightning, mismatched eyes furious as he fought to get through the mirror. She could still see him throwing crystals at the surface, silently screaming her name. She knew, even now, that there wasn't much she wouldn't give up to be able to do that whole night over. She would have called for him the moment she got free – none of this would have happened if she'd just...

"And what happened next?"

"My father came rushing in – they fought, he ran. Out the front door, of all places. He could have just gone back out though the window, like he came in."

"I thought you said he came through the mirror."

"We both know that's impossible – people don't travel via mirror in the real world," Sara said with a roll of her eyes.

Internally, she was seething. Of course he'd come through the mirror, he couldn't have come through the window – her window wasn't open that night – they were expecting bad storms. He couldn't go back through the mirror, because it was broken. She could still see the image of him fading away...

"And you don't believe any of that actually happened now," he asked, back to the task of writing his notes.

"Of course not, it's all completely absurd," she snorted. "I know what really happened now, I was so confused after – and in so much pain." That, also, was true. She had a nasty on her lower back from where glass had embedded itself – that removal was _not_ fun. "I had... some kind of break. I wasn't able to deal with what happened to me, so my brain filled in the blank spaces with fantasy to cope. I understand that now," she said matter-of-factly.

"Yes, that seems to be what happened," he said looking up at her again. "And you new dream – what was that about."

Sarah pulled the book into her lap and read the nightmare to him verbatim. She never looked up at him, never changed the inflection of her voice. She simply read to him, detached from all emotion, as if she'd used up her daily allotted amount recounting her ordeal. When she finished, Dr Foster simply nodded, write something else down and closed his book.

"I think that's enough for tonight, don't you," he said, placing his folder and notepad on his desk.

"I thought it was enough before we even got started tonight," Sarah replied, standing.

"I'll see you in a week, then," he replied, ignoring her comment.

"A week from today is Christmas," she said defiantly.

"Then I'll see you in less than a week. Monday, in fact – that way we've all got plenty of time to get into the Christmas spirit after. Continue to write down your dreams, Sarah, that's a very important part of your therapy and if you don't comply-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Sarah said holding up her hand to cut him off mid-sentence. She turned and left without another word – well, without another word _he_ could hear. She had quite a few four-letter ones that she was mumbling under her breath.

If she had managed to linger around for just a bit longer, she would have seen Dr. Foster approach the mirror in the corner of his office and bow his head. After a few murmured words, Dr. Foster's reflection disappeared and what stood in its place was something so large, he barely fit in the mirror's frame. His voice was gruff – primitive - when he spoke, but commanded an authority that even caused the doctor to straighten himself.

"What do you have to report," the voice demanded without formalities.

"She knows less than we thought, though we might have another problem."

"Which is?"

"Her dreams have started again. And I'm not so sure Jareth is responsible for it, though, considering their connection, if she's having them, I'm willing to bet he's having them."

"That is only a problem if she knows your face."

"She doesn't," the doctor said. "She only remembers the mask I was wearing."

"Good, all the rest is inconsequential. We'll have her back here soon and we can finish what we started that night."

"Sire," the doctor started, "I don't question your plan, but now that our connection inside the castle is gone, another attempt on Jareth's life will be much more difficult – how are you planning to get to him?"

"You're his brother, Marcas," the voice said a little too calmly. "It shouldn't be too hard for you to get close enough to him to run him through. That is unless, of course, you're too afraid of him. I wouldn't blame you if you were, he's quite powerful, which is obviously why he's King, and you are not."

Marcas silently seethed. "That crown is rightfully mine, and will be once we're finished. I may even keep his precious Sarah around for myself – I would enjoy breaking her," he said with a sick smile.

"Once I've retained what I need from her, she will be of no use to me. She will be yours to do with what you wish. I seek not the pleasures of the flesh from mortals."

"Be that as it may," Marcas began, "I may still have a use for her after all. I will see you soon. _With_ the girl. The veil will be dropping soon and we should have sufficient ability to cross us both back over."

And with a nod, the mirror went black.


	7. Makes No Sense At All

_Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Shuffle. Click. Clack. Click. Clack._ The sound of a pair of very highly boots pacing across a very highly polished marble floor echoed throughout the almost empty chamber at a deafening volume. Aside from a few detached grunts and a final sigh, it was perfectly quiet. Not even an errant goblin or chicken to distract him. Gloved hands flipped expertly through old pages from a book that looked centuries old, while mismatched eyes glazed over words in a language as old as time.

"There's nothing in here, either," a crisp accent cut through the silence with annoyance. He slammed the book down on a growing pile, while a dark haired male winced at the sudden break in what had, until that moment, been a fairly quiet afternoon.

"We've been through every book in the library, Sire. There's nothing here. Everything about your situation is unique, I can't imagine there's been anything written about it in the past," the man said, obviously tired; there was no telling how long the two of them had been at it.

Jareth sighed and sat down behind his desk, reaching for another book. His eyes were straining against the fading light and he, too, was tired. Though it wasn't necessarily the reading that was keeping him awake at nights.

"Well, something had to restart our communication. It's been three years – I severed that connection when her nightmares started – how and why have they begun again," he asked, mostly to himself, though that didn't stop the dark haired man from answering.

"Perhaps it is the very Labyrinth itself. It did bestow Ms. Williams her powers at the genesis of this story. Is it possible that it is intervening on her behalf?"

"It's certainly something I've considered, though I haven't felt the shift in power like I did before. On the other hand, I have been more in touch with Sarah in the past few weeks than I have in years. Something is following her – stalking her. I can _feel_ it, and even if she's decided to tune out her natural inclination to all things magic," he said with a roll of his eyes, "she's still using magic, alerting anything supernatural to her whereabouts, and that makes her a target. She's in danger, Earnan, and I can't get to her."

"Does she know that she can communicate with you in the dreams, Sire? Perhaps it isn't just childish stubbornness, maybe she really doesn't understand what's happening to her. It's possible that she doesn't know she's in danger," Earnan said, shutting the book in front of him – he knew he wasn't going to find anything in there.

"She knows something isn't right. I can feel that again, too," Jareth said on barely a whisper. "We're connected, possibly stronger than ever. At least, on my end. I've no doubt she can feel me, but she's unaware of the power she wields – she has no idea what she's capable of. It's as if something is blocking her connection to the Labyrinth, to us. To me."

"Which is why I suspect the Labyrinth itself is involved. If that is not the case," he said, debating if he wanted to finish the next part of his sentence out loud, "there's only one other person that possessed that kind of magic."

"And he's dead," Jareth said on a sneer. "Along with his accomplices and allies. I made sure of it."

"I'm not doubting your abilities, Sire, its just -"

"He's dead, Earnan." The tone of the Goblin King's voice let his adviser know that the conversation was now over; it wasn't even a possibility he'd consider. Lorcan, was dead – he'd seen to it himself, and unless there was some very, very powerful dark magic being used, there was no bringing him back – though Jareth would be lying if he said the thought hadn't crossed _his_ mind as well.

"Then my suggestion, Sire, as it ever was, is for you to contact the girl through your shared dreams – there's a reason they've manifested themselves again after all this time, and it's the only way you can effectively get her back here. She has to call for you, she has to mean it. And you can't intervene. You have no pow– "

"I know what she has to do, thank you very much," Jareth said dryly, effectively cutting the man off for a second time. "I'll try to talk to her tonight, perhaps this dream will go more pleasantly than the last few," he murmured on a shudder. The vision of her lying dead in his arms was so vivid, so real, he could almost feel the weight of her limp body against him, the sharp bite of the wind against his blood-stained face; he hoped he wouldn't have to live through that again – in _any_ form.

Earnon, as much as the King, was concerned about their last unconscious encounter – he couldn't decide if it was a dream, a warning or a vision. Or worse, some combination of the three. Either way, it couldn't mean anything good, he thought.

The sun was setting in the Underground, and the King of Dreams had work to do. With a weary sigh, he put down the last book he'd look upon that evening and paused for a moment with eyes closed, collecting his thoughts.

"You're dismissed for the evening, Earnon. Thank you for your assistance," he murmured, and made his way out of the study. Tonight was going to be taxing on all involved, and he needed to prepare himself. There was so much he wanted to say to the girl (and even more he wanted to do, not the least of which was toss her over his knee as she so seriously needed), but there was a very fine line he had to walk – there was only so much he could say. Only so much he could do. He had to make her understand...

There were a few advantages to being the King of Dreams, and one of them was the ability to shape and spin those illusions to his benefit – call it part of the job description – and he was going to have to call on quite a few of those tricks to get Sarah at ease, and then get her to _listen_ - something that had proven taxing in the years he'd known her when there _wasn't_ some unseen force hellbent on destroying them both.

He'd have been lying if he's said he hadn't been watching her all those years – every time one of those traitorous subjects of his went to visit the girl, he was never far away – always out of view, but never far. In fact, their connection to her and her enthusiasm in which she called them was the only reason he hadn't bogged the lot of them and thrown them into an oubliette as soon as she'd left. Then again, considering the power Sarah possessed, it was possible he wouldn't have been able to lift a finger to them. Nevertheless, the thought had crossed his mind – frequently.

As such, he got to watch her grow, watch her interests change; watch _her_ change. For a long time, whether she knew it or not, they frequently shared dreams – the subject of which had shifted and matured with her age. Perhaps it made him a cad (he certainly had been called worse), be he wasn't going to warn her that he was a part of them. No, in fact, it provided him a unique insight into her thinking, and, eventually, an understanding as to why she'd rejected him. She was too young, to inexperienced, too immature – at least in the beginning. With age came a maturity and strength that he'd known she'd possessed all along, but wouldn't come to fruition until much later. She was stubborn as ever, and wildly disobedient at times (something he was _sure_ he'd have fun getting under control), but she was always humble, and rarely thought of herself. She was regal at times, and unselfish, but she was still a dreamer. Still possessed an imagination and will and spirit that attracted him to her from the beginning.

He smirked to himself as he removed his gloves, and his boots, remembering the first time he'd been called to her dreams and the mood had changed from frilly dresses and Prince Charmings into something decidedly _else_.

Her demands of him were, as ever, exhausting, but, at least, these were demands he was willing to submit to. Her view of him changed, too. He was no longer the villain of her childhood stories – a category he'd loathed to be put into – no, now he was something different. Something, new. Something more tangible. Something more _real_, and he had saw no consequence in showing her glimmers of the truth: he'd never been the devil she'd dreamed up as a child (in fairness, that statement wasn't _entirely_ true – he had his moments). Besides – Prince Charming was _such_ a bore.

It was with that knowledge that he continued to undress and finally slip into his bed. He would spin her mornings of gold, as he always had, minus the haze of childish fantasy and perhaps, then, he could reason with her. Then again, knowing that fire that burned just beneath the surface of her fair skin – a fire that he loved - it could all backfire. It wasn't as if there wasn't a precedent. It wouldn't be the first time she'd turned his world upside down.


End file.
